The congregation was rising with a rustling of women’s dresses as the notes soared to echo in the ceiling’s barrel vaults. He saw surprised looks turn to grins. Helen Hewitt gave him a thumbs-up and a beaming smile. He briefly wondered if she’d got her acceptance letter yet.
He glimpsed Kitty’s eighty-two-year-old mother leaning on the arm of Kitty’s distant cousin Brendan in the first pew to the left. Behind her in the second pew on the bride’s side, Archie Auchinleck gazed fondly at Kinky, who smiled back, dimples deepening, before Archie turned to face the rear of the little church, looking past two more pews of Kitty’s family and friends.
O’Reilly’s breath caught in his throat. Coming from the narthex were Kitty and the marquis, tall, silver-haired, with the unmistakable bearing of a career soldier measuring his pace to accommodate Kitty’s shorter one. Her A-line below-knee dress of sapphire raw silk accentuated her slim figure and long legs. It, like her attendants’ outfits, was three-quarter sleeved and she wore matching satin gloves. Cream roses cascaded down from a larger bouquet than those of her attendants. A half-veil hung from a pillbox hat.
God damn it, Kinky had been right, as usual, that he’d approve of the bride’s choice of outfit. Wasn’t she the most beautiful, most desirable woman in the whole of Ireland? In the world? It was all O’Reilly could do to stop himself rushing down the aisle to take her in his arms.
She was gazing down, less from modesty, O’Reilly realised, than from making sure one of her high heels didn’t disappear into the cast-iron grating in the floor. It ran the length of the aisle and was part of the central heating system.
The couple passed the fuller pews of the groom’s side and O’Reilly looked at his old friend, the marquis of Ballybucklebo. He had forgone dress blues for a morning suit clearly well pressed by his valet-butler Thompson. O’Reilly picked out more friendly smiling faces. Father O’Toole in his cassock. He wore no other vestments today because he was not here in his official capacity. Colleen Brennan, the district nurse, and Miss Hagerty, the midwife, were here. Myrna MacNeill, the marquis’s younger sister, sat beside Sonny and Maggie Houston. And immediately behind Barry, just as Archie stood behind Kinky, was Sue Nolan. Things had been a bit strained there for a while, O’Reilly knew, and he truly hoped the youngsters were working it out. But then, as old Willy Shakespeare had remarked, “The course of true love never did run smooth.” O’Reilly grinned. He should bloody well know that, but, as Kitty drew ever nearer, his love for her now felt more like a calm bottomless pool. O’Reilly shook his head. Time would have to tell for young Barry. He wanted Barry to be happy. Today O’Reilly wanted everybody to be happy. Clams and pigs in shite were down-in-the-mouth, whingeing mopers when compared to how he felt, and he knew he was grinning like a mooncalf, an omadán of the first magnitude for everyone to see—and he didn’t care.
Her delicate perfume nearly overcame him as Kitty, still on the marquis’s arm, arrived at O’Reilly’s side.
Cissie held the last triumphal chord, stopped, and mopped her brow. The harmonium made a grateful gasping noise and subsided into exhausted silence. Mister Robinson waited, then said, “Dearly belovèd, we are gathered here today in the presence of God Almighty and of this congregation to witness the joining of Caitlin O’Hallorhan to Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly in holy matrimony. Please be seated.”
The congregation sat, quietly, reverently, but Fingal could imagine how some of the ladies would be nodding and cocking heads in silent approval of Kitty’s outfit.
O’Reilly waited patiently through the minister’s homily and the reading by Kinky of the passage from First Corinthians, chapter 13. Looking straight at Archie Auchinleck, she finished with the familiar words, “… and now abideth faith, hope, and charity, these three. But the greatest of these is charity.”
Charity. He knew that the Greek word agape, which was often translated as “charity,” could also mean “love” in English. Faith, Hope, and Love. But Kitty had been adamant. She wanted no deviation fron the King James Bible. I admire that traditionalist streak in you, Kitty O’Hallorhan, and as her perfume filled his nostrils, another Greek word for love forced its way into his mind. Eros. Behave yourself, Fingal.
The choir and congregation gave a lusty rendition of “Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee” and O’Reilly joined in:
… all who live in love are Thine,
Teach us how to love each other, lift us to the joy divine.
That, he thought as they finished, was a bloody good sanctified shout.
“At this point,” Mister Robinson continued, “it is customary for the minister to offer a short sermon of advice to the bride and groom. My lord, ladies, and gentlemen … it is a braver man than I who would attempt to advise our Doctor O’Reilly. It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle.” He waited until the laughter subsided. “So, we’ll forgo that portion of the proceedings and move on. Now it falls to me to invite you to rise…”
There was a clattering of feet on the floor and the rustling of women’s dresses.
“… and me to ask, ‘Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?’”
The marquis said clearly, “On behalf of the O’Hallorhan family, I do,” turned, and stood beside Kitty’s mother, who smiled at him.
“I must ask if anyone knows of any just impediment why this man and this woman should not be joined?”
O’Reilly harrumphed. He knew there was more to that passge about “coming forth or forever holding their peace,” but he suspected that Mister Robinson was using the same guiding principle he’d invoked when avoiding advising O’Reilly about the matrimonial state. It would take a villager with the courage of a VC winner to have the temerity to suggest any such thing.
“Let us pray.”
Heads bowed. The prayer ended and heartfelt “Amens” were uttered from many mouths.
The ceremony rolled on until finally Mister Robinson asked, “Do you, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, take Caitlin O’Hallorhan to be your wife? Do you promise to love, honour, cherish, and protect her, forsaking all others and holding only unto her?”
Fingal began his response but to his surprise found that his throat was dry. He started again, “By guh—” realised that here, of all places, was where he should not blaspheme and simply intoned, “I, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, take thee, Caitlin O’Hallorhan, to be my wife. To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, and I promise my love to you.” His grin was mammoth yet his voice was soft.
Now it was Kitty’s turn. Her voice was firm, clear, and confident, and her gaze never left his eyes as Kitty plighted her troth.
“The ring?” Mister Robinson asked.
O’Reilly watched Barry rummage in his waistcoat pocket. The thing was stuck. He blushed, fiddled, went even more red.
Mister Robinson whispered, “Take your time.”
Barry tugged. The ring popped loose and flew skyward before falling and heading for the floor’s central heating vents. He managed to grab it as it fell. The marquis was an avid cricketer and his, “Oh, well held, sir,” which he would have called to a fielder catching a batsman out, was audible throughout the church. A sentiment echoed by O’Reilly.
“Here, Fingal. Sorry.” Barry surrendered the ring and smoothed his tuft.
The putting of it on Kitty’s finger took but a moment. “With this ring I thee wed—”
Mister Robinson then delivered the words ending in “… I now pronounce you man and wife. What God hath joined together let no man put asunder. You may kiss the bride.”
Kitty threw back her half-veil and O’Reilly looked deep into those grey eyes flecked with amber. Like a drowning man, in that moment his life ran in fast motion before his own eyes. Kitty, a student nurse. The two of them together in the tearoom of Wynn’s Hotel, him telling her he had to study, hadn’t time for both her and the hours of medical school. Her forgiving him just before he qualified. Her tears years later when he’d told her about Deirdre. Her waiting
patiently when they’d met again last year, understanding his reticence until in April he’d at last found the courage to tell her he loved her.
O’Reilly embraced Kitty as a grizzly bear might, and a hungry grizzly at that. Her lips were soft on his. He stood back, still holding her. “I love you, Mrs. O’Reilly,” he said, “and I will love you … now and forever.”
“And I’ve never stopped loving you, Fingal, and I never could.”
As she spoke he wondered why those few simple sentences were not sufficient to bind them forever, but the ritual must go on.
After the benediction, the minister asked, “If you will come with me?” As he led O’Reilly and Kitty, Barry and Jane to the vestry, Cissie Sloan, after a few preliminary pants and wheezes of the harmonium, launched into Pachelbel’s “Canon in D Major.”
By the time O’Reilly and Kitty had signed the register and had their signatures witnessed, Cissie had switched to Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” from the Ninth, “Choral,” Symphony and O’Reilly was happily singing along, “Freude, schöner, Götterfunken…” He finished, bowed to Mister Robinson, said, “Thank you, your reverence. Thank you very much, and Barry, and Jane. Now, Mrs. Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly,” he offered Kitty his arm, “it’s time for us to face the multitudes outside, get back to Number One, and kick off the festivities. After all that talking, my tongue’s hanging out for a pint.”
44
Fall In with the Marriage Procession
By all the saints and martyrs, we’ve done it, O’Reilly thought as he and Kitty left the church ahead of the marquis and Kitty’s mother. The bridal party followed and the congregation brought up the rear.
With the sun high in a cloudless sky, he felt as if he were in a Turkish bath. “Lord,” he said to Kitty, “it’s even hotter out here.”
“You must be sweltering in that uniform,” she said. “But thank you for wearing it, Fingal. You look so handsome. Just as I remember you during that New Year’s Eve dance at Trinity College, Dubin, thirty years ago. That’s where I started to fall in love with you,” she said, smoothing his lapels and darting in for a kiss.
“Now who’s the soft-soaper?” he said. “I’m thirty years older and two stone heavier, but today I feel twenty-five again.” He’d worn the heavy uniform because Kitty had asked him to. And he’d worn it to his first wedding too, so had hesitated for a minute before granting Kitty’s request a month ago. But hadn’t he also decided at that time that Deirdre would have approved of their happiness? Bless you, Deirdre, requiescat in pace.
“Fingal, you’re looking solemn. We’ll get you a pint soon,” she said, squeezing his arm.
His step faltered and his breath caught in his throat. If there was a more beautiful woman in the six counties he’d eat the silver medal and blue and white ribbon of his Distinguished Service Cross.
“That dress suits you, darling,” he said. “You’d take the light from any fellah’s eyes and I think that lad’s serenading is for you alone.” High in one of the churchyard yews, a song thrush poured out his heart in coruscating trills. “And in case I don’t get a chance to tell you for a while,” O’Reilly waved his free arm at the welcoming multitude waiting outside the church gate, “I love you, Mrs. Kitty O’Reilly. I truly do.”
The crowd began to applaud and Kitty had to shout to be heard. “I love you too, Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly.”
Donal Donnelly and the estate agent Dapper Frew, both in the uniform of the Ballybucklebo Highlanders, began blasting out “Marie’s Wedding” in two-part harmony on the bagpipes.
Clouds of confetti fluttered down, pink, and white, and silver, and pastel blue.
Kitty threw her bouquet. It fell into the hands of Mary Dunleavy, the publican’s plump daughter. Her squeals of delight were clearly audible over the cheers of her friends and thrumming of the drones and the chanters’ high-pitched notes.
Donal and Dapper led the procession. Fergus Finnegan and Eamon Cadogan stood in the middle of the road holding up traffic so the bridal party could cross. There was no impatient honking of horns today.
Fingal noticed Doctor Jenny Bradley waving from one of Number One’s upstairs bow windows. She’d come down for the party and left the kitchen door open so she could hear the phone if it rang.
Another small blizzard of confetti settled on the moving mass of people. The crowd parted as the pipers headed for the back lane past the marquee that had been erected yesterday in O’Reilly’s back garden. Its sides were rolled up. One table served as a bar. A paying bar. He was happy to provide drinks for the guests who’d been invited to the ceremony, but he wasn’t bloody well made of money and by the size of the crowd the whole village and townland had turned up. Willie Dunleavy was at his post. He grinned and pointed to a keg of Guinness. There would be champagne for all the churchgoers for the toasts, but nothing, in Fingal’s opinion, quenched a thirst like a pint and there’d be time for one while he waited for the multitude to be seated and the speechifying to begin.
He nodded, pointed at Kitty, and mouthed, “Gin and tonic,” to Willie, exaggerating the words. He knew he couldn’t be heard over the row.
Willie lifted a bottle of Gordon’s gin.
Fingal looked at the other catering arrangements. Kinky had done a magnificent job of mobilising the cooks of the village, and she herself had not been idle.
Two tables groaned under tureens of chilled soup, glasses of prawn cocktails, platters of raw oysters, roast hams, chickens, cold roasts of beef, whole poached salmon, boiled lobsters, crabs, and shrimp, smoked trout, salads, bread rolls, wheaten bread, soda farls, butter … he couldn’t make out all of the dishes, but was content that no one was going to go home hungry on Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly’s wedding day.
He and Kitty went through the back gate, the turf springy underfoot. Donal Donnelly had mowed the lawn yesterday and the smell of freshly cut grass lingered.
Donal and Dapper, playing a quick march, “The South Down Militia,” stood flanking the gate, a two-man guard of honour for the entering throng. Good old Arthur, sitting beside Donal, joined in the music-making with his head thrown back, ululating, and chewing at his own notes as they escaped.
Fingal led Kitty the length of the garden. “Useful lot, the Rugby Club,” he said as they passed rows of folding chairs and tables covered with red tablecloths. “Kinky organised the loan of this furniture. We honestly couldn’t have managed without her.”
“I’ll let you tell her,” Kitty said. “She’ll appreciate it.”
“I already have done,” he said, “and she did.”
As they neared the house, he pointed to several sets that were close to a trestle table beside the house. Its tablecloth and those of the front row were pristine damask Irish linen. Along the top-table’s side nearest the house were place settings, and at intervals on it and on the other tables were vases of orchids, bright-coloured floral gems. “Having special cloths, place names, and centrepieces for the invited guests was her idea too. It’s free-for-all at the red-topped tables.”
He walked round the end of the top table. “I’ve been to Lord knows how many weddings. I know what I like.”
She smiled. “And you’ve told me what you don’t like and I agree. I think it’s a lovely idea to have a small head table and guest tables. Gives everyone a chance to blether with their neighbours.”
Fingal glanced to the last and most peripheral group in the front row; Doctor Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick, Bertie and Flo Bishop, and Cissie Sloan and her husband Hughie and their son Callum. It surprised Fingal not at all that Cissie, who was well known for her ability to talk inconsequentially on just about any topic, was in full cry and that Fitzpatrick was having difficulty stifling a yawn. “I see what you mean,” he said, pulling out a chair. “Kitty?”
She sat, and he sat to her left. The rest were already taking their seats. Sue Nolan then Barry were to Fingal’s left, Jane Hoey to Kitty’s right beside Mrs. O’Hallorhan and the marquis.
Fi
ngal had first met Irene O’Hallorhan and her now late accountant husband in the ’30s. She sat erectly, a smile from time to time crossing her lined face. She wore a neat maroon suit with a roll lapel jacket and fur-trimmed cuffs. A string of pearls hung beneath the wattles of her thin neck. Her silver hair was done in a tight bun and her eyes, grey with amber flecks, held the same depths as Kitty’s. For a moment he wondered if Kitty would look as well in her eighties, but shrugged. She’d always be young to Fingal.
“Here yiz are, Doctor and Mrs. O’Reilly,” Willie said, depositing their drinks.
By God, but that “Mrs. O’Reilly” sounded good, Fingal thought. “Thanks, Willie,” he said. “Look after everybody else up here and those other tables at the front with flowers on them. And when you get a chance, bring a bowl for Arthur.” Fingal turned, lifted his glass to Kitty, looked into her eyes and said, “To you, my love.”
“Thank you, Fingal,” she said. “Thank you very much.” She touched his hand and sipped.
This was their day and the best way to celebrate it was to make sure everybody had a hell of a good time. It was going to be a ta-ta-ta-ra that would be remembered for years to come. And not because some eejit had made a fool of himself in public. “You don’t mind we’re cutting down on the speeches?” he asked her. Speeches? Jasus, he thought, a pox on them.
“Of course not, Fingal,” she said.
“I’ve lost track of the interminable ramblings I’ve had to sit through; coy innuendoes, shaggy dog stories that fell flat, a proud father full as a goat and embarrassing everyone by going on about his daughter’s potty training.” Fingal cringed. “The worst had been a best man with a stutter who had wanted to ‘Tell the bride to fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-focus her attention on her husband.’”
Kitty spluttered then said, “Fingal. That’s rude.” She laughed.
“Not a bit,” he said. “Honi soit qui mal y pense.” He laughed with her. “And I can’t believe you’d think evil thoughts.”
An Irish Country Wedding Page 33
